Stormwarden (21 page)

* * *

Telemark saw the forest through alien eyes, but the trees, the sky and the dusky humid smell of vegetation in his nostrils, were like nothing he had ever known. The wood was a place of dim violet shadows. Long trailing tendrils of leaves arched overhead, dappled by reddish light, and strange animals whistled from the thickets. Yet the vision held no ambiguity of meaning; Telemark understood he beheld the Llondel's home, a place inconceivably removed from Keithland soil.

Suddenly the alien forest was slashed by an aching flare of brilliance. A shrill scream of sound ripped away the image of trees, and Telemark's eyes were seared by the blistering glory of Kordane's Fires as they had shone before the Great Fall. But to the Llondel, the Fires brought not salvation but captivity, exile and suffering. Shackled by the demon's imaging,
Telem
ark saw the Fires arc like heated steel across the velvet depths of the heavens, then plunge earthward, never to rise again.

His sight went dark. Beset by pain, he breathed air which ached his lungs, dry and thin and cold after that of his home forest. One with the first Llondelei of Keithland, he crawled forth from the wreckage of an engine which lay smashed in the snow of a hillside. The image spun, wavered, blurred encompassing generations of Llondian history. Pinned by an onslaught of incomprehensible realities, Telemark tasted insanity, hopelessness and a longing for the purple twilit shadow of a homeworld believed lost. His heart ached with a measure of sorrow unknown to the heritage of man. Tears coursed down his cheeks. Just when it seemed the demon would break him upon a wheel of sheer despair, the image shifted.

A man appeared, etched against the darkness. And bound to the Llondel's intent, Telemark beheld the silver hair and the stern sad features of the Stormwarden of Elrinfaer; but the sorcerer's wrists were fettered and his powers dumb, and for that reason darkness closed over the world, never to be lifted. Savaged by an agony of loss, the forester cried out. And his scream drew fire.

Swept under by a red-gold flood of flame, Telemark flung his hands across his face, but the blaze consumed his fingers, and his vision was not spared. The conflagration raged and spun, fanning outward into a wheel of light. At the center stood a man whose hair streamed over raggedly clothed shoulders like a spill of raw gold. With a jolt of startled awe, Telemark recognized the fine dark eyes of Kerainson Jaric; and the Llondel's image ceased.

Released, Telemark opened tear-soaked lashes and discovered he sat in the wooden chair in his own cabin. His bow and his sword lay at his feet. Shivering with reaction, and half stunned by disbelief, he glanced about and saw that his belongings had been straightened up, each item returned to its place; the smashed jars of herbs stood restored on the shelves, the glass miraculously repaired. Except for the charred ruin of the latch, the backlash and the Llondel's intervention, it might all have been a dream....

Still caught in wonder, Telemark rose stiffly to his feet, and at his movement, Jaric stirred on the cot in the corner. The forester crossed to the boy's side in time to see the brown eyes open, restored to true awareness for the first time since the injury. Telemark stared down at the boy upon the bed with a mixture of awe and trepidation and tenderness. For incomprehensible as much of the Llondel's imaging had been, a portion of its message was plain; with the Stormwarden of Elrinfaer entrapped, this boy represented the final hope of the Llondelei to end the exile which began at the time of the Great Fall. Never would the demons permit Jaric to fall into the hands of the priests.

Haunted by the mystery of the fire image, Telemark watched the boy's recovery carefully, uncertain what to expect. But
Jaric's
initial reaction seemed entirely ordinary.

Confronted by the strange confines of the cabin, his hands tightened on the blanket and his pale brow creased in confusion as if seeking the reassurance of something familiar. Quickly Telemark caught the boy's hand.

"Easy," he said softly. "You've had a tough time since I took you in. Can you tell me how you feel?"

The words did nothing to reassure. Jaric's frown deepened, and he seemed to struggle for speech. At last in a thin frightened voice, he admitted, "I can't remember who I am."

XII
Prot
é
g
é

Telemark gave Jaric's hand a squeeze of reassurance and reflected that the after effects of a head injury could occasionally prove merciful. This boy had ridden into Seitforest harried by powers no mortal could support with grace; he would recover his health more easily without recollection of his immediate past.

"Don't fret." The forester tugged the blanket free of the boy's tense fingers. "You suffered a terrible blow to the head, but time and rest will set everything right, even your memory."

Jaric twisted his head on the pillow. "But I don't even know my name." His gaze quartered the cabin again, as if he searched for something lost. "How did I get here?"

Telemark sighed. "Your name, which you mentioned when delirious with fever, is Kerainson Jaric. And I picked you up off the ground in Seitforest after you were assaulted by bandits. They robbed you of everything, even your clothes, which effectively eliminates any further clues. Since no one seems to have searched for you since, I suggest you winter with me while you recover. You'll be as safe here as anywhere else, and I could use help with the traplines."

Jaric bit his lip, eyes widening to encompass the neat rows of snares which hung from pegs on the far wall. "But I know nothing," he said softly. The admission seemed wrung from the depths of his heart, and the anguish reflected on his features moved the forester to pity.

Telemark framed the boy's face between his palms. "Don't worry. I'll teach you. And in our spare time, you'll study swordplay. That way, when you recall who you are, you'll not get your skull cracked again at the hands of the lawless."

Jaric's
expression eased. Encouraged by the response
Telem
ark winked, and was rewarded for the first time by a smile.

* * *

For Telemark the following days became a time of discovery and revelation, after so many weeks of caring for a comatose invalid. Though weak and unsure of himself, Jaric applied himself to life with a feverish sense of determination. Watching him re-weave the laces of an old snowshoe, the forester sensed the boy lived in fear of incompetence. The harsh leather of the thongs cut into the delicate skin of his fingers, but Jaric persisted until his face became pinched with fatigue. Still he showed no sign of quitting until the task was complete.

Telemark laid the pack strap he was mending across his chairback and crossed the cabin to the boy's side. "No need to finish the whole task today." He ran his fingers over the weave, and found the firm, careful execution of a job well handled. "You've done fine."

Jaric looked up, eyes dark with uncertainty. He said nothing, but plainer than speech his expression revealed his distrust of the praise. The boy would finish with the snowshoe though the thongs wore his fingers raw, Telemark observed. With a small sigh of frustration, he let his patient be.

Hours later, when Jaric knotted the last thong in place, Telemark was startled by the sweet smile of satisfaction which lit the boy's face. And it occurred to the forester that for Jaric, who had no recognizable past, the accomplishment represented a major victory.

* * *

Oblivious to the fact she actually slept in a capsule deep beneath the isle of the Vaere, Taen dreamed she sat cross-legged in the changeless silvery twilight of the clearing. Tamlin stood opposite her, pipe clenched between his teeth. His red-brown whiskers framed a thoughtful expression.

"I'm thinking you're ready," he said softly, and for the first time Taen could recall, his feathers and his bells were stilled.

She tilted her chin impishly and grinned at him. "You mean you're finally tired of hearing me describe how much that old fisherman dreams about the taverngirl at the docks?" Under the Vaere's tutelage, her skills had grown and refined, and recently, as an exercise, Tamlin made her spend tedious hours tracking the mind of a crotchety fish trapper who sailed just north of the island checking his lines. She
was
getting better, and increased confidence gave her leeway enough to tease.

But levity was wasted effort with the Vaere. "How many pairs of socks does the fellow own? Can you tell?" Tamlin bit down on his pipe and puffed furiously, frowning at his charge.

Taen wrinkled her nose in distaste. "Socks?" With a resigned sigh, she closed her eyes and cast her mind outward, awareness spread like a net across the lifeless face of the sea. At first she felt nothing.

"You're overriding the subject," said Tamlin sharply. "Stay annoyed with me, and even if you manage to locate the old man, you'll alter his frame of reference. Perhaps at that you're not ready at all."

Although Taen had not the slightest idea what she was supposed to be ready for, she curbed her irritation and concentrated on emptying her mind. Her sense of self gradually receded, replaced by a passive quality of waiting timeless as the magic which bound the clearing. Presently, like the tentative flicker of the first star at twilight, she felt the old man's consciousness brush against her awareness. Bent over a reeking bucket of fish bait, his thoughts preoccupied by daydreams of the tavern wench's ample bustline, his mind interested Taen about as much as old woolens in need of darning. But she persisted, threading cleanly through the man's surface awareness in pursuit of his collection of footwear.

The information she discovered startled her to the point where she burst into honest laughter. Opening her eyes, she glared at Tamlin, who maddeningly vanished at once. But by now she was accustomed to his vagaries.

"You knew," she accused the spot where he had stood a moment earlier.

A smoke ring appeared, wavering in the air, and an instant later, Tamlin materialized beneath, frowning in agitation. "Knew what?"

Taen twisted a stray lock of hair between her fingers. "Knew about the socks," she said, and grinned. "The old crow doesn't
have
any. He goes barefoot."

"True enough." Tamlin folded his arms with a rattle of beads. "But that's no excuse for carelessness." And he left her with the image of the fisherman, who scratched his gray head with fingers still slimy from the fishbait, and puzzled to fathom why the tavern girl's fair bosom suddenly reminded him of socks.

"You must practice," said Tamlin, and the sudden curtness in his tone cut Taen's amusement short. The flush left by laughter drained slowly from her cheeks. Her blue eyes turned serious.

"Not the fisherman," she pleaded.

Tamlin paced, his bells a jingling counterpoint to his impatience. "No. You've grown beyond that. I rather thought you should try something more demanding." He stopped short, and sharply considered her. "Your short-range skills are quite satisfactory. It's time to try you over distance. Close relations often make the easiest subjects to start. How would you feel if I asked you to dream-read the members of your immediate family?"

Taen glanced up, transformed by excitement. Although she had dedicated herself heart and mind to the training offered her by the Vaere, the satisfaction gained through her progress had been marred by constant worry for the mother she had left on Imrill Kand. And Emien, when she had last parted from him, had been troubled and desperate with worry for her.

"Your skills are ready," said Tamlin. "But there are perils. I leave the choice up to you."

But the chance to look in on those she loved, and perhaps reassure them of her well-being, attracted Taen beyond caution. "I would try now," she said steadily.

Tamlin shifted his pipe between his teeth and puffed on it, considering her answer. Then he nodded, blew a smoke ring and vanished, obviously well pleased with his charge.

Taen sat down in the grass, trembling in anticipation. Ever since she had learned her gifts could be controlled, she had longed to contact her home. Now with permission granted she felt strangely apprehensive. What if she discovered all was not well? Yet before the lonely yearning in her heart even fear held no power to sway her. Proud of her place as one chosen by the Vaere, she closed her eyes and began the primary exercises to prepare her mind for her craft.

In recalling Imrill Kand, the first thing Taen remembered was the dusky smell of the peat. Even in summer, fires burned in the smokehouses, curing herring against the long, lean months when boats could be locked in the harbor by winter's storms. Guided by that memory, Taen felt the darkness within her mind shift and part before the reality of another place. Though the deep shadow of evening lay over the isle, she knew her dream-sense had brought her home.

Poised on her gift like a hawk on an air current, Taen hovered over Imrill Kand, startled to find the keen chill of autumn in the air. Lulled by the magic of the Vaere, she had forgotten that seasons would continue in her absence, and the discovery disturbed her. She would return one day, perhaps; but all she knew would be changed. And like a small girl caught in a nightmare, she fled to the house off Rat's Alley for comfort and protection.

Her mother dozed in the wooden rocker by the hearth, sheltered still by the brother who had taken her in since the death of her husband. Beloved work-worn hands lay cradled in her apron, and a familiar curl had strayed from the pins which secured her hair; Taen noticed new lines around eyes already heavily wrinkled by hardship and loss. But the women of Imrill Kand were inured to life's deprivations; Leri Marl's widow had endured her personal tragedies without yielding to despair.

Suddenly uncertain of her control, Taen reached out, tentatively opened contact with her mother's mind. But delicate as her first touch was, she was noticed. The woman's eyes quivered open, blue, but faded now by the first traces of cataracts. Her seamed lips parted into a smile of welcome which changed almost at once to laughter.

"Taen?" Her mother blinked, spilling sudden tears of welcome. Secure in her island heritage, she never thought to question when the sight was upon her; and no vision ever brought more joy than the assurance of her daughter's well-being. "You are safe, I see, Fires be thanked for that." She paused and smiled again, unabashed by the moisture on her cheeks. "Have you seen Emien? I worry about your brother. He was always brash, and quick to resent what he could not change. I fear he bears the Stormwarden no love, child. And that sets sorrow upon me, for Anskiere was like a father to you both."

Taen hesitated, reluctant to share what little she knew of Emien. And mercifully her mother mistook her silence for impatience. "Go, child. Seek your brother. Tell him he is missed, and that
Dacsen
is needed at home."

But the sloop was lost, cast onto the reefs by orders of a King's man now dead. If the wreckage had failed to wash ashore, Taen could not bear to break the news. Burdened by a sense of her own responsibility, she withdrew from her mother's presence and flung herself headlong into a search for her brother, as if by finding him she could negate the betrayal of his upbringing and the sorrow that knowledge might cause the folk who raised him.

Darkness closed like a tunnel about her. Suffocated by the sensations of distance and cold, Taen struggled to regain control of her gift. Unlike the old fisherman, Emien's mind was hard and bright, a fierce turmoil of emotional conflicts; the pattern was closer to her than any other. No matter how remote her brother had grown, Taen was determined to find him. She steadied herself with a memory of his face, black hair spilled untidily across his brow, his eyes shadowed and wary since the day the accident had claimed their father's life. And light suddenly exploded into existence around her, as if the association opened a connection between them.

Centered by the powers of her gift, Taen found herself looking down on the torchlit arcade of a palace courtyard. Two men circled over the patterned brick beyond the archway, stripped to the waist, and armed with practice foils. In a fast-paced exchange of swordplay, the larger man lunged. His blade clanged against his opponent's guard. The smaller fellow grunted and recovered.

"Mind your footwork, boy," said the larger man, and with a start of surprise, Taen recognized her brother as his partner.

Annoyed by the correction and unaware of his sister's presence, Emien riposted. Linked by her dream-sense, Taen shared her brother's bitter satisfaction as he hammered blows upon his tutor's weapon. The pace increased. Flamelight gleamed on sweat-slicked shoulders as the fighters wove across the courtyard, graceful as dancers in the rhythms of parry and riposte. The sparring was intended for practice, an exercise to develop sharper skills. But merged with her brother's mind, Taen realized Emien fought for much higher stakes, as if the outcome of this simple match held capacity to poison his future. Wrapped in a black web of passion, he fenced as if his teacher were an enemy.

Steel rang upon crossguard with a sharp, angry clamor. Both men gasped for breath. Absorbed by the fiery play of light on the foils, each teased and feinted, seeking an opening in his opponent's guard. And drugged on the wine of her brother's hatred, Taen almost missed the raised hand as his instructor signaled the end of the bout. For one ragged, flickering instant, it seemed Emien would not desist. Then he lowered his foil, and rubbed his damp forehead with the back of his wrist.

His instructor regarded him intently, then collected the practice weapon. "You're getting quite good. With work, you have the potential to be very good indeed. Now get some rest. I'll meet you again tomorrow."

Emien watched the swordmaster depart with narrowed eyes. The praise was a string of meaningless words in his ears. Still oblivious to Taen's presence, he crossed the courtyard and retrieved his shirt and tunic from a bench. Sewn of soft scarlet material, the garments were bordered with black and gold threadwork, with laces at cuff and neck caught by jewelled hooks. Amazed by his finery, Taen shivered as the sweat chilled on her brother's body. He had risen high since they had parted on the decks of
Crow.
And somehow, somewhere, along with his bettered station, he had acquired a hunger for power no training at weapons could assuage.

Numbed by his strangeness, Taen did little but follow as Emien entered the palace. He made his way down a series of ornately decorated corridors and entered a carpeted antechamber. A pair of men at arms guarded the doorway beyond. Emien nodded in greeting and crossed inside, blinking in the sudden glare of candles.

The room's furnishings represented more wealth than Taen could have imagined in one place; but after three weeks of life in King Kisburn's court, Emien barely noticed the rare wood, the patterned rugs or the fine wool tapestries which covered the walls by the casements. He paused with his tunic and shirt draped over his forearm, embarrassed to discover the chamber was not empty.

A richly dressed official stood by the hearth, engaged in animated conversation with a woman clad in ermine and amethysts. Fine gold wires bound her snowy hair and the bracelets on her slender wrists chimed as sweetly as Tamlin's bells as she lifted her head and acknowledged the boy's presence. The official faltered and fell silent, plump cheeks quivering with irritation.

Emien bowed smoothly, as if accustomed to court manners all his life. The easy grace of the movement left Taen uneasy, and worse, the face of the official seemed strangely cloaked in shadow, as if something about his complexion did not agree with the light.

If Emien perceived anything unusual about the person of the official, he chose not to be bothered. "Tathagres, my Lord Sholl, I beg to be excused. Had I guessed the council would end early, I'd have chosen a different route."

Tathagres waved him impatiently past. Painfully conscious of her beauty, Emien proceeded to the suite of rooms which served as his own apartment. There he tossed the rich tunic carelessly over a stuffed chair, summoned servants and called querulously for bath water. Appalled by the ease with which he had shed his upbringing on Imrill Kand, Taen watched Emien berate the servants for clumsiness and savagely banish them from his presence. Soured by the exchange, he finished his washing in solitude, then poured himself wine and sprawled, exhausted, across the rich coverlet of his bed.

He did not immediately sleep, but lay staring with widened eyes at the single candle left alight on the nightstand. Rest came with difficulty, Taen sensed, and troubled by the unhappy changes court life had wrought in her brother, she decided to engage her gift and bring him comfort. Poised like a dream on the edge of Emien's awareness, Taen gathered her powers into tight focus and spread a blanket of peace over his thoughts. She led him back to his beginnings on Imrill Kand. Enfolded in the soft scent of peat and the sigh of sea wind through the chimes on the rooftree above the loft where he slept during childhood, Emien relaxed. Disarmed by the gentleness of her sending, he slipped into sleep.